Pain of the Perfect Cutter
by JiaPryor
Summary: JONAS; I'm not perfect, I don't want to be perfect, and I'll never try to be perfect. I don't give a damn what you say or think because I try not to listen. I try extremely hard. Key word: Try. Nick-centric
1. Chapter 1

Pain isn't something that I'm accustomed to. Not the agonizing kind that's just so damn hurtful that you want to die. Never would it be that kind.

The kind of pain I know is the emotional kind. It's similar to the kind you experience after a petty breakup between you and this one girl that you never really liked anyway. Nevertheless, a breakup is a breakup. Bottom line. Even though I was only fourteen at the time, I was dating a rising icon and didn't know it. The relationship ended. I gained a song, and a good lot of publicity (even if it was bad, publicity is still publicity regardless) that assisted our band in our gradual rise to fame. All it did was just sped it up a little, that's all. No harm done in that, right?

Soon enough, I dated Selena Gomez. With her, it was more like an infatuation. We knew absolutely nothing about each the other excluding the basics, i.e. "My name is…" or "I'm this age…" or "I'm in a band…" or "I'm on a TV show…" To say the least, we burnt out. The little skank dove right into this Taylor Lautner dude who had the browned/shiny skin. He's a douche bag anyway.

My hair's cut really short for me. It annoys the hell out of me on a daily basis because I can never do anything with it. It just sits on top of my head. I was in higher favor of my hair in early 2007. In all honesty, I don't know what possessed me to chop off my locks. And you know what else annoys me? The fact that one minute Joe has a beard and moustache growing, and then the next minute it's fucking shaved off. I'm irritated by the fact that he just can't decide what he wants. I also don't like the fact that Joe and Kevin's teeth are so straight. They're shaved down, and now their teeth have no enamel on them because of all of the whitener they constantly coated their "perfect" teeth with. If they were like me, they'd have strong teeth that were slightly crooked and not perfect.

I'm pissed off at the word perfect. Pissed. Missed. Dissed. Lisped. See? That list would have been perfect if not for the 'lisped,' right? So why not chuck the damn word off and perfect the list that doesn't even pertain to me. If only I lived in the world where perfection doesn't matter. Joseph. Frankie. Kevin. Nicholas. See how this list doesn't work? Every name has two syllables ([sil • lab • bulls] you have to say it like that) except mine. I'm the outlier. I'm the imperfection in the group.

Isn't it just so fun when things work out like they always do?

Summary: I'm not perfect, I don't want to be perfect, and I'll never try to be perfect. I don't give a damn what you say or think because I try not to listen. I try extremely hard. Key word: _Try_

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**Review please? I know it's short, they're supposed to be..._not _long(ish). It's purposely written this way, and not how I usually write. Sorry if I majorly fail at the sarcasm and stuffs. **

**REVIEW please? **

**Until then,**

**~~ _Jia_**


	2. Chapter 2

_Perfect in its imperfections  
I surrender the battle for perfection  
And to self inflicted punishment  
When perfection is not reached_

Lately, I've been obsessive over the word perfect.

I'm terrified to grow a moustache. I don't want to shave. I don't want hair to slightly tickle the bottom of my nostrils. I don't want hair. It's another one of those things that irritate me.

If you don't want to be sympathetic with me, then just stay empathetic. If you don't want to be neither of them, then go fucking be apathetic and leave me the hell alone because, quite frankly, you're just a shit bag anyway. Again, I hate the fact that I curse. It's a habit that I picked up one day. Honestly, it just happened. One day, I banged my knee on the table, and a "fuck" just escaped my mouth. _Not my fault. _

I'm not depressed, and I'm not happy. I'm medium. The size between a large and a small. That's me.

Anyway, I shouldn't be saying all of this, but I have to. Actually, that's a lie. I don't have to. I _choose_ to.

Does being perfect mean that you don't do anything wrong? Does it mean that I can't curse of drink a can of Pepsi when I want to? Does it mean that I don't have the time or will to be concerned with life's everyday petty little things? Does being perfect mean all of that?

In that case, fuck perfection. If it can't bend its definition to apply to me, then I don't need it.

I want somebody to catch me. I want them to watch what I do to myself. I want them to watch me skip an insulin dosage or eat twenty too many grams of carbohydrates. I want them to watch me go to Wal-Mart and get the generic two liter brand of Pepsi and then sit in the parking lot in my car and down the whole damn bottle. I want them to see me do it. I want them to see that I'm the furthest thing from perfection. Now, I'm not supposed to be skipping insulin dosages or drinking pure sugar mixed with some damn high fructose corn syrup. No. None of those things. But I do anyway. My imperfections make me perfect. Make sense?

I have cuts. A lot of them, but not in the place you would think. The cuts aren't really cuts; I guess you could call them random slashes. Anyway, they're on the inside of my thighs, and it hurts extremely badly when I walk and they chafe together. But that's what I get for not having the perfect weight: thigh chafing. Really, it hurts like hell. And no, band aids don't make it better.

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**Review please? **


	3. Chapter 3

My mom says I need to get happy. Fast. But the problem is: I just can't. It's not like my emotions are some fucking switch that goes on and off. No. Hell no.

It's my favorite word ever. What word? Hell. And no, I'm not shitting you. When I'm in my room, decorating the inside of my thighs with red and some wide, open lines, I try to spell the word. Truth be told, it's not as easy as you think. It takes a lot of concentration to do both things, actually. If I screw up, it'll hurt more than I need it to. Notice how I said need, and not want. Want to know why? It's because I'm dependent on it. If I don't, I'll get pissed off at the world like some moody teenage girl who's bleeding from her vagina. Oh well.

Almost usually (that makes absolutely no sense if you actually think about it) I have these tiny packets of salt that the employees of McDonalds constantly give to us. I swear, they even gave me salt when I got their yogurt parfaits. Dick heads. Even people I don't know are against me. The salt feels incredible in my slashes. It burns so bad that I bite the inside of my cheeks, yet it feels absolutely blissful that I could cry from joy.

Usually, I take three of four Aleve after my session and pass out on my bed. I've learned better than the first time. I'm a sneaky little bitch. I have this extra layer of bedding on my bed, so normally, I lay on that, but no… I know better. So now, that red stuff doesn't get on my sheets and that annoying bitch everybody refers to as my mom won't "ground me."

What's the point of grounding? I mean, I'm a fucking teenager. I sneak out. I'm not perfect. There goes that word again. Perfect. What's the perfect grounded child? Answer: a mindless android who's a fucking godsend from hell. Make sense? Yeah, it makes _perfect_ sense.

Guess what? I'm not bipolar. I'm not some sick dude who enjoys mutilating my skin. That's not me. Not me. But… I really don't know how to explain this to you. It's not like I enjoy it, and I don't dislike it. The "random slashes" I make just give me this wonderful sense of euphoria, and then once it crashes, I'm back to slash one. See how I didn't say "square one?" It's because I'm not a shit head. Cutters can be intelligent too.

_Triskaidekaphobia_. Care to know yet another secret? I'm completely and utterly terrified of the number thirteen, thus me having the diagnosis of triskaidekaphobia. There's always a reason for everything. Like there's a reason I have fourteen slashes on both thighs instead of thirteen.

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**Review please, my lovlies ;)**

_**-Jia**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Steps to being Just Like Me: **

1. You grasp the blade oh so tightly within your palm. Your fingers must be steady, or else you won't get a perfect line. Who the fuck wants a crooked line?

2. Now, without wavering, you need to lightly drag the blade across (or vertically for that matter, whatever floats your boat) the skin of the inside of your thigh

3. Let it fucking bleed. Just let the blood bleed profusely._ I dare you._

4. After you've successfully mutilated yourself, you take one of those tiny packets of salt. Shake it and then rip it open.

5. Take your index finger and set it on your tongue for five seconds. Then, dab the tip of your finger in the salt.

6. Rub the damn salt in the wound

7. Enter a utopia

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Tonight, the Aleve didn't work worth shit. I couldn't fall asleep. It didn't numb the pain. It did nothing. And once I was out of my blissful state of mind, I was in hell. Nice transition, huh?

I found out something just now. It's what made me want to slash myself. My mother broke a plate. The blue one with the little shades of green swirls interchanging to be precise. It was my favorite, and that bitch bust it. I used it every single night when I'd eat dinner, and now she threw everything off. She might as well make me fucking be like Elvis and eat the damn leftovers on the floor.

Change is something that I don't like. I'm not suicidal, but change just pisses me off. Take for instance: one night I have my hair curly. What if the next night it was straight or gelled into a Mohawk or something? I would be angry. Just when you get used to one thing, something always happens that takes it off balance.

I hate liars with a burning passion. I don't scar myself. See? I just contradicted all of the actions that I had just done. See what liars do? They screw up your mind and they lie to you. Hence the name liars.

Tonight, Joe and Kevin asked me if I wanted to go to a movie. They asked if I wanted to go see District 9. No. No, I don't want to go with you fuckheads to a dumb movie about giant lizards or whatever fake shit they're putting out to make money. Whatever.

Goodnight. I'm done being what they want. Tomorrow is another chance to start anew, and yes, I am going to take advantage of that.

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**Review please? I have chapter four ready!**

_**-Jia**_


	5. Chapter 5

I think that it is a weighty possibility that I have been raped without me knowing it. Who's to say that somebody didn't shoot me full of heroin and then fucked me senseless while my entire mentality was somewhere else? They could have snuck me out of my house and then snack me back in just as stealthily. I mean, I have no physical evidence, but don't you just get those moments where it seems like something could have happened, but you're not aware of it?

Never mind.

But I do have an audience. It's not like I can see them, but they're definitely there, every single time I cut myself. I can tell; it's like my sixth sense or some other random voodoo shit. They're silent, their mouths gaping at me and silently applauding with their fucking pristine hands when they see the blood cascade down the inside of my thigh. I'm their entertainment.

_All eyes on me _

_In the center of the ring_

_Just like a __**circus**_

I know that they're just waiting for me to screw up. They're patiently waiting for me to cut too deep or reopen too many wounds and just bleed to death. They're lingering just a bit longer than they want to for me to bleed out an effusion of blood and die. I'm absolutely positive that they'll get so fucking ecstatic when they get to set their eyes upon my corpse, all of its blood drained.

And I'm utterly terrified.

They're waiting for me to just slash the wrong way or too deep, but I'm frightened. I don't want to die, but at the same time, I want them [audience] to see that I'm perfectly capable of pleasing them. Sometimes, I don't want the control, but I know I have it.

I choose to pick up the glinting utensil and delicately cut my thigh open. It's my hand that's controlling the knife. My audience is sadistic, and they know it. They want me dead.

And I refuse to silently commit suicide just so they can enjoy it with their warped minds. If I die, I want it to be quick like jumping off of a building and just before I hit the ground, a bus hits me, thus killing me horizontally.

But now, it's almost New Years, and my brother's and I weren't invited to perform on Dick's. I can totally be monotonous and charismatic at the same time. I really didn't feel like putting on jeans and having them chafe against my mutilated skin.

I wish I could stop, but I can't. No. That's not it. I am perfectly capable of stopping this self torture, but I don't.

Why? You tell me.

It's four days after the fat man in the red suit supposedly came to our house. I'm still fifteen, and Frankie still believes in those fake tales my mother, father, and two older brothers feed him. Christmas morning, I cut before I went down to greet my family.

I went into the master bathroom, which belonged to my parents (biological or not, I might add) and went through my father's shaving supplied. Sometimes, when he doesn't use the regular razor, he has these rectangular steel blades. That's what I was searching for. As soon as I saw the minute container they were stored in, I could feel my face illuminate. My hand shook as my fingers wrapped themselves around the blade.

This always happened: getting anxious. I couldn't help it.

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**Review please? For Nicholas. **


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